Miss Holmes
by avcngrs
Summary: There's another Holmes sibling, one that went AWOL years ago into the dark abyss of secret field work. Mycroft pulls her from the shadows to retrieve Sherlock from Serbia and assist with the terrorist threat. Except Cecilia Scarlett Holmes possesses a secret neither Holmes brother ever dreamed of deducing; one that could harm them all, deeply and permanently.
1. Chapter 1

**Miss Holmes**

 **Summary:** There's another Holmes sibling, one that went AWOL years ago into the dark abyss of secret field work. Mycroft pulls her from the shadows to retrieve Sherlock from Serbia and assist with the terrorist threat. Except Cecilia Scarlett Holmes possesses a secret neither Holmes brother ever dreamed of deducing; one that could harm them all, deeply and permanently.

 **Story Notes:** This story came to mind when I started thinking about the missing scenes from Season 3 and how Mycroft Holmes seemed OOC retrieving Sherlock from Serbia. The man barely braves London rain without his umbrella for goodness sakes. Also, his mentioning to another sibling in HLV. I know he said brother, but the dynamics of a Holmes sister intrigued me far more. Some things have my own twist on them, since TV shows can be very unrealistic. This takes place through the course of Season 3. Most of the plot is changed, but some parts include almost word-for-word dialogue from the characters. Therefore, I'd like to make clear **I don't own Sherlock.** I already have about five chapters written for this story, so expect an update in about a week.

 _"Don't be absurd. I'm not accustomed to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."_

-Mycroft Holmes, HLV

 **CHAPTER 1**

 _\- Barcelona, Spain -_

Adrenaline coursed through every cell, fueling every deep breath and lightning step. The streets of the overcrowded Spanish city seemed endless, her target turning at every possible alleyway. She darted after him, close on his heels. Shouting in Spanish, she warned people of the rapid chase of two armed people plowing through the streets of Barcelona. It was useless; they were too slow and stupid to move out of the way. She slammed into innocent bystanders, throwing them to side and continuing her fast pace. The thrill of the chase consumed every vein, a religion she thrived off of. Past every yellow colored apartment building, every unique architectural piece of Gaudí's, her lungs screamed and heart pounded. The target, Aarón Martín, surprised her with his athletic ability to still be running. Sprinting, actually.

Her pure black outfit, pale skin, and gun holster stood out unnaturally under the Spanish sun. She despised being so exposed like this. She worked in shadows, in the darkness of secrets, under-the-table deals, and clean executions. This wasn't how this day was supposed to go.

It was a simple enough mission. Find the Spanish MI6 agent who was making rogue decisions and compromising secure files of the Royal government. It was supposed to be a quick, easy bullet. But since when was anything in her life easy?

The dirty streets reeked of sewer. Even when they had booked it past the cathedral. She was ready to leave Spain. If she could just catch Martín. It seemed her chance finally came when she took a sharp turn and found the agent backed up against a dead end. A smoke shop on one side, an abandoned tourist shop on the other. A couple rusty bikes leaned up against the brick building, next to rotting dumpsters. It didn't make for a very pleasant smell. Lines of clothes swayed in the slight breeze above them. It was oddly quiet here, hidden from the multitudes of tourists. _Away from witnesses_. Martín followed the same idea, 9mm Glock steady in his dark, sun-kissed hands. The barrel lined up with her heart.

"I know who you are," Martín snapped, Spanish accent dripping from every word. Born in the UK but parents of Spain, he resembled their features perfectly.

"Then you know why I'm here."

Dark brown eyes matched brilliant, almost transparent azul ones. "To kill me," Martín's finger found the trigger of his gun. Yet he didn't squeeze it.

"Of course. You've exposed MI6. You know the consequences," her Brit accent showed a hint of boredom. Unnecessary drama annoyed her. Most things annoyed her.

She sensed it before it happened. Martín pulled the trigger; she pulled it first. Two booms of thunder echoed in between the buildings, pounding into her eardrums. The gun felt like chocolate in her hand; warm, smooth, melting chocolate. A familiar sensation. He fell lifeless - she felt his bullet whizz pass and into the stone building opposite. Her bullet made a kill-shot causing blood to slowly drip from his mouth, lungs drowning in crimson.

"F-Fuck you," he coughed, blood staining his white button-up. "Miss Holmes."

Cecilia S. Holmes showed no emotion, placing both his and her guns in her holsters. By the time she was finished, his pulse faded into non-existence. It was a clean job, though she couldn't avoid the blood already staining the cobblestones beneath him. Pulling on some gloves, she dragged his body closer to the dumpster and hauled him inside. With the rats. Where he belonged.

Eyeing the clothes above, she crawled on to the top of the dumpster and onto a windowsill. She managed to reach the first string, grabbing a blue blouse and a pair of white jeans. Jumping off the dumpster containing her latest kill's body, Cecilia stripped in the alley, changing out of her "spy attire" and into more casual clothes. She pulled her hair up in a bun, then fiddled with the lock on the old tourist shop. Taking only a few seconds, she infiltrated the door and grabbed the first backpack and pair of sunglasses she saw. Returning the guns to her holsters and stuffing her clothes into the backpack, she left how she came and headed back onto the streets with a lazy swagger, pretending to be a brainless tourist awestruck at the city.

Part of being a secret agent was being able to disconnect your emotions and who you are in a second's notice. Turn into an entirely different person, with no resemblance of oneself. Having barely any human emotions to being with, Cecilia was very good at what she did. One of the best. She started at twenty-one, as soon as she could. Already having been out of the house for years, her connection with family weakened. Orphans always make the best agents. She considered herself one; little contact was made with her family in the last ten years.

In a mechanical manner, she took a new route to her hotel, cautious of following threats. Nothing roused her suspicion, and nobody gave her a double glance as she entered the hotel lobby and entered the elevator. A new staff was at the desk of the ibis Barcelona Santa Coloma; all the better for her. No one to remember her face.

The room was on the third floor, and Cecilia tapped her foot, impatient at the slow dullness of the universe. Her flight to Brazil left in five hours from the Barcelona airport, which in itself was an hour and a half away, at least. It wouldn't take long to pack; she wasn't one of sentiment and only carried light essentials. Plus customs always were a bitch, getting in _and_ out. The MI6 badge pulled a few strings, but even then guns had to be checked. She planned to discreetly leave Martín's gun in the lobby or right outside in the street. Not a trace on her fingers were on the thing; no need to keep it.

Upon the ding of the elevator, she exited, took a sharp left then right to room 302. It was on the end of the corridor of white identical doors, next to a window. She paused for a moment, staring. It wasn't very pleasant on the streets, but now, with dusk painting vibrant streaks of red and purple across the sky and city starlight below, the city of Barcelona was magical. Her lip twitched on one side, resembling a touch of a smile before she inserted the keycard.

As soon as the door opened a sliver, she knew something was wrong. Cecilia knew the lights were turned off when she left. The maid wouldn't of come. So _why the hell_ was the room illuminated?

Slipping her hand into her holster, she felt the familiar comfort of a gun inside her fingers. Gun at the ready, she kicked the door open.

What she was expecting were a couple of men in suits, maybe even spyware, guns anxious to return fire. Not this.

Not Mycroft bloody Holmes.

The eldest Holmes brother sat on the edge of the bed, in her bed, eyebrows raised at the hell of an entrance his sister just produced.

Although they conversed on the phone every now and again over some matter of national importance, a face-to-face conversation hadn't happened in years. He'd gained weight.

"For God's sake! What the hell are you doing here, you could compromise me!" she hissed, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Merry greetings to you too, sister mine," Mycroft smiled, rising to his full height.

"Skip the formalities. I have a plane to Brazil to catch. Whatever you need, request it quick," she glared.

"Little change of plans on that I'm afraid. The flight's been switched to London," he waved plane tickets emerged from his suit pocket.

"You can't just drag me to London as you wish, brother mine," her ocean eyes blazed. The nerve of her brother. Although he may be the British government, that in no way entitled him to boss her around like he contained ownership of her. Whatever ties in MI6 he possessed be damned.

"This isn't what you think."

She gave him an up-down. "I know this is something that forced you to catch a very early flight this morning, eat terrible plane food for the majority of the day, dress in a rush, and it's not something one of your goldfish could handle. Not to mention your returning smoking habit and gain of weight."

He gave a forced, bitter smile. "Save your deductions. Sherlock needs our help. And I need yours."

This stopped any smart-ass words lingering on her tongue. Mycroft outright admitting he needed another human being to assist him; he was desperate. There weren't many things the older Holmes siblings could agree on; they could count them on one hand. But number one, was protecting Sherlock. It always was. Even when she was so distant, in far-away lands, Mycroft would call if Sherlock dug himself too far into a drug ditch. Of course, she never was in the position to help. Not until now. When eldest was right in her face, _desperate_.

"How? If it's regarding his substance abuse-"

"Worse than that, I'm sorry to say."

"Regarding the fake suicide, then?"

Mycroft previously informed her of Sherlock's plan to fake his death, as not to alarm her if she caught a newspaper title of the grand detective dead. It was an intricate, finely-tuned plan, one she was surprised Sherlock conceived.

"In a sense. Sherlock has been single-handedly disbanding James Moriarty's network over the last two years."

Cecilia's back straightened. "I know the name."

"He's fallen into a row of trouble with one of Moriarty's associates, Maupertuis."

"Know that name too. Serbian torturer," she paused. "Oh."

"I need your field expertise."

"I'm in the middle of a complicated assignment."

"I know. I've already talked to MI6. Thus the plane change. A private jet with me, in fact. So we'll have time to discuss the plan."

"What _plan_?" she scoffed.

"Retrieving Sherlock from Serbia. Like I said, he needs our help."

"You need me to infiltrate where he's being kept."

"Yes, he's already been there a week. This is the first chance I've gotten to contact you."

"A call would've done," she noted. Walking around him, she grabbed a shirt from the floor and stuffed it in her black, generic duffle bag.

"I needed to convince you."

"Consider me convinced."

"Excellent. The flight leaves in four hours. A quick stop at MI6 to prepare you with supplies and you'll be off."

She paused, thoughtful, as she zipped up the bag. "Why not do the job yourself?"

"Fieldwork hardly is my forte, sister dear. This is deep undercover work, something you'll find up your alley, not mine. There is one more thing." Eyeing him, she waited for him to continue. "A terrorist threat on London. Another thing you can be utility for."

"We'll see."

She finished packing, grabbing her toothbrush from the bathroom.

"Shall we?" she nodded to her brother.

They exited the hotel room. Quite an odd pair; Cecilia still in her tourist clothes, Mycroft in his extravagant suit. Some designer name, no doubt.

Yet united them was an unimaginable keenness, a power to bend the world to their will, dark hair and pale skin, a mutual understanding of family, and a single person very dear to their hearts, no matter who many times they denied it.

Time to save Sherlock Holmes.

 **Please review! They're little motivation cookies for me :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Miss Holmes**

 **CHAPTER 2**

 _\- Serbia -_

Baron Maupertius enjoyed his work. Most people thought it sickening, evil; possibly even hellish. He saw it as an art: how many ways can you force a man to scream? Torture was his expertise. He prided himself on a national reputation of his work. Like a spray of blood, his reputation over the last years had spread. Eventually, Maupertius received a call from a James Moriarty. Though he knew little of the man, one discussion on the phone made him realize what an opportunity working for him would be. An Englishman looking to have evil plans fulfilled. Despite speaking Serbian on the phone, Maupertius was able to recognize the distinguishable accent. Rather fascinated by British and their proper ways, he'd accepted the job almost immediately. And that's how, years later, a malnourished, bloody Sherlock Holmes came into his possession.

Pacing, the Serbian took in the sight before him. Only staying upright by chains, Sherlock Holmes looked nothing like photographs he'd seen of the world's only consulting detective. Matted, dirty curls hung past his shoulders, a light burnt out of bloodshoot eyes, his back a map of sickening, criss-crossing slashes from the whip used earlier. Every rib was visible, a dark bruise running down his side. Dried blood clung to his trousers from where a bullet grazed his leg in his last escape attempt. The room was filled with the gagging, disgusting, thick scent of piss and neglected human body.

"You broke in here for a reason," the threatening Serbian words rolled off Mauterpius's tongue.

His hand encloses around a thick, rough metal pipe and he takes joy in the power he feels being so inferior to another man.

"Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?" he threatens, swinging the pipe above his head. He's prepared to deliver a striking blow but pauses as his prisoner mutters something incoherent. Leaning forward and lowering the pipe, he digs his fingers into Sherlock's hair. "What?" he hissed.

He's listening intently when the woman in the corner speaks for the first time. She's dressed heavily in furs and has a piercing stare even Mauterpius secretly feared. Recently joining the gang, Natalie Gustinov rose quickly in ranks until she was fairly close to Mauterpius's position. Every time she spoke Siberian it was with an accent; it took Mauterpius but a few hours to realize she was originally British. Despite English being her first language, Gustinov spoke Serbian with startling accuracy and confidence. "Well? What did he say?"

The torturer straightened, confusion etched on his visage. "He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair."

"What?" the female soldier asked with interest.

Sherlock continued to speak in a strained whisper, ranting on about his foe's life.

"...that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom… and that my wife is sleeping with my next door neighbor!" Once again, he yanked Sherlock's head up by his black curls. "And?"

Sherlock answered.

"The coffin maker!" Mauterpius exclaimed. "And? And?"

Continuing to deduce, Sherlock whispered on. Mauterpius relayed the faint words to Gustinov. "If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

Storming out of the room, he left Sherlock Holmes with the soldier.

"So my friend, now it's just you and me," she continued speaking in Serbian. Taking her feet off the table and standing up, she leaned close to the detective. "It was quite some trouble to find you." Now English. "Listen up, brother mine. Mycroft has informed me of an imminent threat imposed upon London by some terrorist network. He's asked me to fetch you from your holiday and bring you back to England. Back to Baker Street for both of us I'm afraid, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled.

"That does of course, bring about the problem of your escaping from this place. Mycroft has arranged a special helicopter for us, but it's a matter of getting out of here first." Pulling keys from her pocket, she began fiddling with the shackles suspending Sherlock. The detective yelped in surprise when the pressure released from his wrist and his whole weight in its entirety fell on his older sister.

"For God's sake," she muttered, quickly unlocking the second handcuff. With the pale, bloodsoaked frame of the detective in her arms, she whispered a two-word plan into his ear. "Play dead."

Hauling him outside the door, she called to the young soldier standing guard. "Ти! Помози ми ."

A little startled, he pulled the earbuds from his ears and rushed to her side, slinging the gun over to his back. "Шта се десило? Да ли је мртав ?" he asked.

"Да," she answered.

They drug him outside, and roughly laid him on the freezing, forest floor. Sending the guard back inside, she waited for the door to slam behind him before taking off most of her layers and dressing Sherlock. He was barely responsive at the moment, teeth chattering thanks to the brisk night.

Pulling out her mobile, she sent a quick text to the eldest.

 _Operation Thames is go._

Mycroft responded within seconds. _Ready._

Contemplating the easiest, most efficient way to carry Sherlock to the meeting point, she finally decided on fireman style. Grunting as the full weight of the man rested on her shoulders - metaphorically and literally - she started off at a light jog through the thick brush. As much as she wished to run and get Sherlock to the chopper quicker, she knew she would burn out too quick. Four miles sprinting through dense forest with a 65 kg man on your back would not be her smartest decision.

It was a slow four miles, catching herself everytime she almost tripped over some root or rock or thing. So far, between panting breaths, she had yet to hear anyone in pursuit. Quite possibly, the gang bought the story of Sherlock's death. After all, it wasn't too surprising a man who'd lost over 10 kg, suffered from multiple injuries, almost catched hypothermia, and was barely granted water over the course of two weeks,might've kicked the bucket.

The Holmes sister didn't count the time she was burning in the forest. It didn't matter. Mycroft would wait.

With his mouth unnaturally close to her ear, she heard every wheezing breath Sherlock took. It took her a second to notice he was trying to say something.

"Ce-Cecilia. St-St… Stop," he whispered.

Ignoring him, she trekked farther East towards the chopper that would take Sherlock home. Safe. To London.

"I-I need a... a s-s-second. P-Please," he begged.

Pausing, she carefully dropped his body to the dirt. "Thirty seconds," she warned.

Watching the direction they'd come from, it was impossible to stand guard. The pitch black night had her essentially blind beyond a meter, and Sherlock's heavy panting drowned out any other noise.

"Ready?" she turned towards him after the 30 seconds ran out.

He nodded "yes," but every quivering, shrunken muscle disagreed.

Hauling him back up, she took off faster this time, having caught her breath as her brother rested.

Sherlock, however, continued to wheeze. Focusing instead on the task at hand, Cecilia trekked forward.

A genuine flicker of hope jumped in her heart when the sound of a helicopter came within earshot. There, in one of the few clearings of the Serbian forests, was Mycroft's private chopper. Salvation. Strapping a now unconscious Sherlock to the gurney, she watched as he was lifted into the hull. Following on the rope ladder, her muscles ached from the combined exertion of carrying Sherlock and climbing. When she reached the top and crawled in, she was surprised to find none other than Mycroft Holmes himself. The politician seemed extremely out of place in his expensive, perfectly tailored suit. Everyone else was either dressed in black ops get-up or paramedic attire. Speaking of which, paramedics circled the youngest Holmes child so he was obstructed from her view. There was nothing else she or Mycroft could for him. They weren't pursuers of medical science. It was in the doctors' hands now.

"Cecilia," Mycroft stepped forward. God, he even carried that bloody umbrella.

"Before you lecture me, a little water wouldn't go amiss," she said in between heavy breaths.

Sitting down as the helicopter swayed higher into the air, she began stripping the Serbian identity Cecilia Holmes became over the last two weeks. Fur coats, hat… it was refreshing.

Mycroft returned with a cup of water, and a scared paramedic by his side. Cecilia tried not to laugh. To the average mind, Mycroft Holmes has a very intimidating persona.

"May I look you over?" the paramedic asked.

Thankfully, her persona was intimidating as well.

"Go away."

"Yes, ma'am," he scuttled back towards Sherlock.

"How bad is he?" Mycroft sat down next to her, with the bloody umbrella still in his hand.

"If you really cared, this extraction would've been executed as soon as you caught wind of his capture," she hissed.

Mycroft wasn't in the mood. "How bad is he?"

"I'm no doctor. But from my assumptions, I'm guessing some broken ribs and stress fractures and maybe a sprained wrist. Maybe a minor concussion, I honestly don't know. Obviously, the whipping of his back is in threat to infection. I snuck in antibiotics to give to him. Mauterpius thought it was narcotics. Blasted moron. Those are just the most pressing things, however."

"His mental state," Mycroft said quietly.

"A little shaken, as expected. He was making good deductions about two hours ago. Could've been better, but he's exhausted. He'll need recovery time, despite however cocky and 'I'm fine' he acts," she sighed. "Mummy's going to kill us if she knows."

"John too," Mycroft said under his breath.

"Sorry?"

"Mummy's not the only one I have to answer to, I'm afraid," Mycroft spoke up.

A loud crash echoed in the helicopter. Sherlock woke up, apparently, and began struggling violently. "Mr. and Miss Holmes, a little help!" one of the paramedics yelped.

In a heartbeat, Mycroft and Cecilia were each holding one of Sherlock's legs down.

"He'll hurt himself more if-" one of the doctors started.

"No shit!" Cecilia cut him off. "Calm him down!" she barked to Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at the younger brother. The brother he vowed to protect. The brother he let down.

Sherlock was extremely opposite to the Sherlock Holmes who lay on the sofa in 221B. His brilliant blue eyes turned violent, mad. Blood trickled from his forehead, adding to the appearance of a mad man. He shouted nonsense through the oxygen mask. Despite his lack of nutrition and muscle, he struck with force. Cecilia had one knee dug under the bed and both hands clasped to the other side, so her whole body strapped down Sherlock's legs. Two other brave agents tackled his torso and arms.

Mycroft was not someone accustomed to fear. But this Sherlock Holmes scared him.

It scared the living hell out of him.

"Sherlock," he said with such a force time seemed to stop. In that moment, him and Sherlock locked eyes. He continued to struggle, but still focused on the elder brother.

The intense blue blazed.

"Sherlock, you're safe. Stop fighting. We're going home. London. Baker Street," Mycroft laid a hand on Sherlock's bruised and battered chest. "To John."

Sherlock stilled.

 **Translations (Serbian)**

Ти! Помози ми . - _You! Help me._

Шта се десило? Да ли је мртав ? - _What happened? Is he dead?_

Да - _Yes._


	3. Chapter 3

**Miss Holmes**

 **CHAPTER 3**

 _-London, England.-_

As his eyelids painfully fluttered open, Sherlock blinked against disgusting, bright whiteness. The smell of antiseptic wafted into his nostrils, leading him to the conclusion he was in the hospital. When his hand shifted, a sharp pull from an IV told him his deduction rang true. Everything ached, despite how much morphine streamed through his veins. The overly soft hospital bed burned hell fire on his abused back. He felt constricted in his left arm and realised it was in a sling of some sort. Eyes finally adjusting, the all too familiar view of a hospital room came into focus. What surprised him was the figure next to him. She'd aged, but not in a negative manner. Cheekbones slimmer, hair longer, thickened. A little scar on the right of her forehead. Healing split lip almost disguised by deep red lipstick. Cunning, brilliant azul eyes that matched his own.

"Sherlock? You with me?" asked Cecilia Holmes.

His mouth opened but nothing came out. Clearing his throat, he managed a reply with a foreign, rusty, unused voice. "What are you doing here?"

"You don't remember? I got you out of Serbia."

 _Serbia._

A tidal wave poured over him; his brain was instantly flooded of every scent, sight, and sound of the Serbian torture cell. The heart monitor betrayed him, quickening its pace.

"It's okay," Cecilia's usually harsh demeanor was softened. "Pointless to panic. You're in London."

"John," whispered Sherlock.

"Mycroft said you might ask for him," she frowned. "Relax, you can see him later."

"Where's John?"

"Where you left him," Cecilia answered.

Sherlock seemed satisfied with that. His eyelids drooped, and he succumbed to the weakness of his transport.

Cecilia leaned back in the chair. Goddamn hospitals and their no smoking rules.

Mycroft appeared not two minutes later. He had left for a meeting; some important American politician in town. Wanted to meet for coffee and discuss stocks and war or whatever politicians discussed. Cecilia didn't know; politicians were rather pesky and useless to her. Especially her eldest brother.

"You've just missed him," she informed.

"Was he aware?" Mycroft questioned. Sherlock had woken up more than once already but never consciously enough for a sane conversation.

"As much as I've seen him. He asked for John, like you predicted he would."

Mycroft's lips thinned into a line while he watched Sherlock's chest shudder up and down with every breath. "Will you stay?"

"To help him? You know he won't want me around."

"That's not entirely true," Mycroft slowly lowered into a chair. Lines creased his face; the stress of government and Sherlock Holmes as your brother wore on him. "He's going to bounce back and hide every ounce of pain. Enough so nobody will notice. I don't want him over exerting himself."

A deep sigh. "I hate London. Too crowded."

"Brazil is just as bad, if not worse. Especially in Rio."

"You _are_ desperate."

A confused scowr. "How?"

"You're begging, brother dear."

The line thinned more. "Hardly. I'm asking politely. There's too much history between youngest and I," his eyes never left Sherlock. "He'll be more compliant to you."

"What kind of bullshit is that?"

"He's missed you," a trickle of emotion in Mycroft's voice.

"Oh dear God you're getting soft. Text me when you've fixed your _emotions._ I'm going out for a smoke," she huffed.

Mycroft's voice stopped her in the doorway. "I want you to kill Maupertuis. Even if you don't accept the terrorist job."

"Oh, I was already planning to do more than kill him, brother dear," a twisted smile, and she was gone.

/

Sherlock's time at a hospital lasted a total of 5 days, 7 hours, and 54 minutes. As soon as he was strong enough to stay awake, it was a matter of two seconds before he was painstakingly bored. He deduced his nurses to tears. Doctors became extremely frustrated of their hotheaded patient. Anyone coming in contact with the detective, Sherlock was very harsh with. Mycroft was forced to apologize in the only way he knew how: their paychecks were magically tripled for the month. Sherlock's behavior puzzled him to an extent. Someone whom resided entirely alone for several years discluding evil men, completely rejecting humane affection. Sherlock always claimed he preferred solitary; "alone protects him." However, his years of friendships with John, Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade said otherwise. In one of the first conversations he had with his younger brother since the helicopter, Mycroft broached the topic.

It was the first time Sherlock was brilliantly aware, conscious, and closest to his usual snarky self. Very uncharacteristic of him was the hospital setting and seeing the great detective in such a disabling position. Thankfully, he seemed better than before. Sitting up, a bit of color on his cheeks. Still, no shaving or cleaning up had taken place. Obvious were the wires and tubes connected to his body, the bandages visible underneath the hospital gown, that wrapped around his shoulders and all the way down his back no doubt. A brace adorned his left wrist, due to a stress fracture from the cuffs. His other wrist was sprained, wrapped in an Ace bandage.

Mycroft approached from the doorway, resting on his umbrella. To his surprise, Sherlock spoke first. "The amount of food they attempt to shove down my throat is alarming. May I leave?"

"I hate to admit, brother mine, that it's the amount of food you should be consuming on a daily basis."

"I want to leave."

"You've hardly been here forty-eight hours, and conscious for five of those. For your own benefit, you are staying here," Mycroft sat at Sherlock's bedside in one of those despicable plastic chairs at least twenty years of age.

"My own benefit," Sherlock mouth in repetition. "My own benefit," he said louder, now scoffing. "You let me be tortured."

"I didn't allow _anything_ , you created your own demons," Mycroft sighed. A brotherly quarrel it seemed, instead of a grateful reunion of family. Why did it surprise him?

Sherlock didn't answer.

"How much do you remember?"

"Enough. More would be deleted if I wasn't bothered by pesky nurses every hour."

Silence consumed the room once more.

"Some things are a little blurred, I'm afraid," Sherlock said so quietly, Mycroft was forced to lean closer. "Cecilia was there. We haven't had contact with her in thirteen years. Somehow my brain imagined her."

"Because she was there. She got you out," said Mycroft.

"You found her. And recruited her." It wasn't a question.

"Through my ties to MI6, I always had a slim idea of where she was and what she was doing. When I heard about your capture, I contacted her immediately. I wasn't fit for the field, and despite everything, she's the only one I'd trust for the job. I personally extracted her from a current job in Spain and off to Serbia it was."

"Where is she now?"

"At MI6 headquarters. Finishing up loose ends. An annoying amount of paperwork in our business."

"Hmm," Sherlock's hands rested under his chain, fingertips pressed together. It was refreshing to Mycroft, to see that familiar sight. "Is she coming back?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Through MI6, I was able to have her reassigned. She is to assist you on your search for the terrorists."

"She mentioned that."

"Did she?"

"'Mycroft has informed me of an imminent threat imposed upon London by some terrorist network,' were her exact words," Sherlock quoted.

"Yes. Further information to come when you're released," Mycroft said.

"I should be released now."

"Don't whine," Mycroft sighed.

"I'm not whining."

"Your rejection to everyone alarms me."

"Then your observatory skills are lacking sufficiently, brother mine. Alone protects me."

"Does it really? I think Doctor Watson would beg to differ."

Sherlock fell silent once again.

 **Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Pretty similar to the same scene in TEH, so I did skip some of the dialogue because eh, I'm sure in the not only one who's memorized Sherlock episodes. But, if you want to skip some of this chapter I understand. Also, here's a quicker update than I anticipated :)

 **Miss Holmes**

 **CHAPTER 4**

Three days after Mycroft's conversation with him, Sherlock was released from the hospital and driven in a government vehicle straight to Mycroft's personal office. Mycroft hired an indiscreet barber to clean Sherlock up. Being paid an unnatural amount for a shave and haircut, his silence was expected. Sherlock didn't limp at all when he entered, despite the bullet graze on his leg still healing. His actions were stiffer than usual, and he laid in the barber chair with a suppressed hiss. Mycroft said nothing, sitting at his desk, filing papers. The barber worked silently, first tackling the haphazard curls down to the detective's shoulders.

After a little while, Sherlock spoke, his baritone deeper than normal. "Are we expecting anyone else?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Anthea's at the dry cleaners."

Except for the clip, clip of scissors and the sound of expensive pens on overpriced paper, it was very quiet in Mycroft's office.

Sherlock stretched out his hand and bony, pale fingers picked up the newspaper on the nearby table, "SKELETON MYSTERY" shouted on the first page.

Mycroft glanced up to see the article title. "You have been busy, haven't you?" He chuckled as Sherlock flopped the newspaper back to its original spot. "Quite the busy little bee."

"Moriarty's network - took me two years to dismantle it," said Sherlock. Mycroft figured the deepening of Sherlock's voice was due to the amount of pain lying on a hard chair did to him. The nasty mess of his back was barely beginning to heal.

"And you're confident you have?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."

"A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?"

"Wading in."

Sherlock raised his hand for the barber to pause his work.

"In case you've forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."

Grunting in pain, Sherlock raised himself up. Straight hair slicked back and an anger in his eyes would have made a lesser man scuttle. The barber looked like he was considering it.

"You hardly did anything. You bossed a few people around to do the dirty work."

"I got you out," said Mycroft indignantly.

"No - I got me out," Sherlock countered.

"That's hard to believe since you were passed out for the majority of it," came a voice from the doorway. Cecelia Holmes entered unnoticed during the heat of the moment.

Dressed in a beige petticoat, white collared shirt, light skinny jeans, and beige heels, she was much more put-together than when Mycroft had seen her last. Extravagant makeup, cigarette in between fingertips, and a fiery stare gave her an important swagger. The barber moved out of the way.

"You sat and watched me get beaten to a pulp."

"Field work isn't rainbows and butterflies, I'm afraid. Making a mess by a smash and grab could've started a war. Very annoying, politics," Cecilia gave Mycroft a pointed stare.

"You were enjoying it. Both of you," Sherlock hissed.

"Nonsense."

" _Definitely_ enjoying it."

"Nobody would enjoy seeing _you_ in such a miserable state," Cecilia let out a wisp of smoke. "Utterly disgraceful."

"I didn't know you spoke Serbian," Sherlock remarked.

"I fluently speak most of the world's languages, except some African and Native American languages. It helps with the job," Cecelia said, smoke billowing from her lips.

"Hmph," said Sherlock, unsuccessfully hiding a grunt as he laid back down. The barber hesitantly resumed his profession.

The door clicked open, to reveal Not-Anthea holding a dark suit perfectly tailored for Sherlock's shrunken frame. Taking in the scene, she left the suit hanging on a hook and left. The barber followed shortly.

Cecilia continued smoking, checking messages and emails on her iPhone. Mycroft resumed paperwork, bent over some significant document of the royal government.

With a deep groan Sherlock managed to right himself on his feet. He was wearing pajamas from the hospital still. Not caring for indecency, he stripped in Mycroft's office and dressed in the suit. Every movement sent shooting pain throughout his back. The button on his trousers caused some difficulty due to the brace remaining on his left wrist. His shirt caused an equal dilemma. By the time he was tucking his shirt in, his hair was mostly dry, returning to its curly, bouncy state. It was then Mycroft exited his desk and approached the youngest.

"I will need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

"What do you think of this shirt?" said Sherlock.

Cecilia snorted.

"Sherlock!" said Mycroft in exasperation. He forgot how annoying both siblings were together when teamed up against him.

"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart."

"An agent died for this information," Mycroft scolded.

"That's what people in my line of work usually do, regrettably," said Cecilia, without a tone of sadness in her voice. "From the rumours, the traffic… it seems a big terrorist attack is predicted for London."

Not-Anthea decided to return right then, holding a few manilla folders.

"And you're helping?" Sherlock asked.

A quick glare of Cecilia's flicked towards Mycroft. "It's up to debate. I've finished things in Spain. My next expedition is Brazil, unless I agree to join your boy band," Cecilia explained.

"What about John Watson?" said Sherlock, changing subjects. He managed to pull on his suit jacket without a grimace.

"John?" Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed.

"Mmm. Have you seen him?"

"Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips."

Not-Anthea showed Sherlock the file. Mycroft continued, "I've kept a weather eye on him of course."

"Who's John?" asked Cecilia, dropping her cigarette in Mycroft's desk ashtray. Not-Anthea rolled her eyes.

"My flatmate. And associate. An army doctor who's joined me on a few cases," Sherlock explained. He opened the file to reveal John Watson adorning his mustache. "We'll have to get rid of that."

"We?"

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man." He dropped the file down and straightened his jacket. "Maybe I'll surprise him. He'll be delighted!"

"He believes you're dead?" Cecilia interjected.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"I'm not sure that's something easily accepted."

"Maybe I'll stop by Baker Street, hop out of a cake!"

Mycroft frowned. "He's not at Baker Street anymore. He's moved on with life."

"What life? I've been away. Where is he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?" Mycroft scoffed.

"You _always_ know."

"Surprise him," Cecilia muttered, shaking her head. "Best of luck with that, brother mine."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice lit-"

"Perfect. Maybe I'll just 'drop by.'"

"Oh, may I surprise him too? Just to videotape of course," said Cecilia.

Oblivious to her, Sherlock asked, "Where is it? What have you done with it?"

"Where's what?" Mycroft asked innocently.

"You _know_ what," Sherlock hissed.

Not-Anthea entered again, raising the prized Belfstaff, collars already up. She held it as Sherlock slipped his arms inside, and pulled the familiar fabric around him. The scent of it, the _feel_ , it completed him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes."

"I thought you had a hat, too," Cecilia motioned to her head. "Like an ear hat of some sort."

"Oh for Christ's sake, do you read the papers?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I pick up a copy, if something catches my interest. Like you. Wearing an ear hat."

"It's not my hat."

With his coat collar folded up against skull-like cheekbones, Sherlock left with a renewed bounce in his step.

"He should still be in the hospital," Mycroft returned to his desk, handing Not-Anthea a stack of papers. "For the Prime Minister."

Ignoring Not-Anthea as she left, Cecilia leaned against her brother's mahogany desk and twirled one of Mycroft's Cuban cigars between her fingers before lighting it. The rich smoke filled the office. "I think London fog is the best therapy for him we could find. You brought him back here, after all."

"Yes, regretful enough."

"Oh please," she smiled, letting a puff out. "How you've risen in the totem pole," she motioned to the door Not-Anthea left through with papers for the Prime Minister himself. "You've aged, also."

"Your input is always charming." Dropping papers, he gave an exasperated stare. "Why, exactly, are you still here, besides stealing my cigars?"

"I'm leaving for Serbia tonight."

"7:30 flight, I know."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell Sherlock what?"

"That I'm spending the next couple days inserting daggers into Maupertuis's gut."

"Lovely description."

"I'm serious."

"If he broaches the subject, the information might slip. It's classified, after all."

"Off the books, of course," she observed the cigar. "Nice."

"A present from the Foreign Secretary."

"Making friends?"

" _Hardly._ Rodents crawling on top of each other to impress the important cats."

"You just described yourself as a cat," Cecilia pointed out. "On that note, I'm leaving."

"Send Maupertuis my love," Mycroft gave a pressing smirk.

"Thanks for the cigar!" Cecilia raised it up and slammed the door behind her.

Mycroft shook his head. Bringing both siblings back to London had its dangers. Between the two of them, London could turn into a smoking hole of embers and ash. Sherlock had a dark side, one Mycroft was all too familiar with. But he was on the right side too, no doubt; with his heroic actions and shattering deductions to keep Scotland Yard afloat. Cecilia was a mystery, a shadow herself. Mycroft couldn't penetrate the secrets she held; not through deduction or conversation. Despite her being a lesser evil to burn the greater evil, not always on the "right side," Mycroft trusted her. Now he had to trust himself to keep the fire he started in control. Sherlock was a firecracker, Cecilia a bomb, and he just threw both in a fire with a can of gasoline in his grip. This entire terrorist threat was unnerving, but the patience-testing, riskiest matter was a firecracker and bomb working on solving it.

/

 **Reviews = updates! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes:** This next chapter takes place while Sherlock and John are "working things out," up until the fire. Also, warnings for graphic torture. I might change the rating to M, I don't know… got a little carried away avenging my beloved detective, I guess. Shit is finally going down in this chapter, and the main plot is blossoming...

 **Miss Holmes**

 **CHAPTER 5**

 _\- Serbia -_

"You!" Maupertuis shouted, pointing a weathered finger to the female soldier.

"Don't point," 'Natalie Gustinov' snapped, finishing the last button on her mink coat.

"You! Where have you been? You let Sherlock Holmes escape!"

"Hardly. I _helped_ him escape."

Maupertuis was in her personal space no doubt, shouting into her face. Close enough for her vice-like grip to enclose around his throat and drag him by the neck down the dark hallway. Every inch of this place crawled under her skin. Those who were occupying the base at the time, she already took care of. They lay in pools of their own blood, body already freezing from the Serbian winter. The flickering torches gave the impression of a medieval castle, and she was the knight forcing her prisoner to the dungeon. They passed the guard where he already lay dead, earphones still playing some rock and roll song. The door crashed open to reveal the torture cell. This is where they hurt her baby brother. This is where Maupertuis would _pay._

Except for the lack of a consulting detective, the cell looked identical to how it was last last time. The pungent smell faded some, but the reeking stench of bodily fluids was undeniable. Blood-stained cement floors. The rusty chair in the corner. The aura of death. Echoes of screams. Pulling a tiny key from her pocket, she snapped the cuffs onto the choking Maupertuis's wrists. She shortened the chain so not even the tips of his toes brushed the floor; his entire weight was on his shoulders and wrists.

"Say my name!" Cecilia commanded, squeezing his chin in her right hand, forcing his eyes to match hers.

"Natalie Gustinov," Maupertuis almost shouted.

"Wrong, fucking bastard." Cecilia swung her hips, producing a jaw-cracking punch to his skull. "I'm Cecilia Holmes."

"You- you're-"

"Yes," she smirked. Eyeing the metal pipe alongside the wall, she picked it up and smacked it in her hand. She mirrored Maupertuis when he threatened Sherlock with it.

"Don't kill me," he begged, dark hair covering his eyes.

" _Why not?"_ she hissed. "You're a swine. Not even. You're the scum pigs feast off of. Why the hell should you live?"

He didn't answer. He wasn't whimpering yet, like a lesser man. But Cecilia would force it out of him. She dropped the pipe, letting it sound a rattling crash; a new toy caught her eye. The whip. The whip with dried blood still on it. _Sherlock's_ dried blood.

First, she stripped of his jacket using the knife from her boot not caring if it scraped him while she worked. Then she grabbed the whip, snapping it around a few times. Every time the whip cracked, Maupertuis would jump. The first time Cecilia brought it down hard, right over both shoulder blades. An angry, crimson slash formed on pale skin, ruining Baron's tiger tattoo. He shouted in pain as if someone heard; as if someone cared.

But no one heard; no one cared. And Cecilia didn't hesitate. The whip smacked hard, giving no mercy to its recipient. And again. And again. And _again._

At some point Maupertuis became numb because the shouts were reduced to tears. _Weak._ Maybe he just weeped for his future; this was his profession, he knew what was next. He didn't have much of a future after all.

Retrieving the pipe, Cecilia raised it over her shoulder and let it fall - on the right of Maupertuis's ribcage. A shrilling _crunch_ of bones breaking resulted. Something in Baron's brain snapped and he let out a skin-crawling scream.

"It's not very, fun is it?" she grabbed his throat. "Being on the other end of the stick? You know what is fun though? Presents! Everyone loves gifts. Thus the dreaded day of Christmas. Do you like presents, Mr. Maupertuis?"

He swallowed.

"Merry Christmas," she said, pulling out a five inch dagger. Inserting it into his shoulder, she ignored the squirt of blood spraying on her and littering the floor. He gasped, shock and pain exploding through his veins simultaneously. Then Cecilia _twisted_ it, ignoring the exposed flesh and blood reacting to the open wound. Pulling it out, she let it ooze down his torso.

"I'm not a family man, Mr. Maupertuis," she observed the knife, like livestock at auction. "Neither are you, judging by your wife's affair. But if I could tell you a secret, Baron. Is it okay if I call you Baron? Doesn't matter, you're a dead man breathing anyways. Or is it dead man walking?" She plunged the knife into his thigh. "There we go, don't have to worry about that. But anyways, my secret." Maupertuis whimpered. "I love my brothers. And you hurt one. See the dilemma that causes?"

The dagger stayed inserted in his thigh, but she pulled out a gun from her inside pocket.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" Cecilia asked, twirling the gun like an old outlaw.

He eyed her, pupils desperately attempting to dilate and penetrate the fog of pain. She backhanded him with the gun still in her palm, colliding with his head near the temple. "Usually when people ask a question they _expect an answer."_

"Go to hell," he spat, the words quiet but chipped and forceful.

"Oh trust me, I'm already halfway there. Maybe we can meet up for tea one of these days."

"You're not going to kill me," he smiled, frothing at the mouth.

"You're right. I'm more creative than that. I'm going to _burn_ you. You dug your own grave as soon as one of your fingers touched my brother," she shrugged, as if they were discussing something light-hearted, over biscuits and tea.

His smile disappeared, and fear blazed in Baron Maupertuis's chocolate irises.

Lazily, she aimed the gun at his leg not containing the dagger and pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through and through, a bullseye through the kneecap.

His voice was becoming hoarse from screaming. Everything was becoming blurred, little black stars danced on his corners of his vision like a whimsical dream. Blood loss caused the numb sensation spreading through his body, starting at his stabbed shoulder and working it's way down. It followed the drizzle of blood from his collarbone past the white hot pain of broken ribs, around on his bleeding, criss-crossed back, down to his incapacitated limbs.

His head pounded in time to his racing heartbeat, organs attempting to work overtime and make up for his injuries. In the end, it was all in vain. As soon as he heard the woman's real name, he knew there wasn't an escape.

She glanced at her watch, as if Maupertuis's act of dying annoyed her. "I'll need to return to England soon. Precious, my time." Cecilia extracted her dagger from Baron's quad muscle. "And expensive, my tools."

"Blood loss," he wheezed. "You're leaving me to die."

"No, no, love. I promised to burn you and burn you I will."

Grabbing the wooden table from the corner, she set it underneath him. Wrists grateful for the break of holding him up, Maupertuis stood up best he could on the table despite his injured legs.

"I wouldn't stand on that if I were you."

She pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and letting a billow of smoke escape from her lips into Maupertuis's drooling mouth and watering eyes.

"See you in hell, Мудак."

Dropping the cigarette on the wood, both Baron and Cecilia watched as the old oak caught flame. It traveled onto Maupertuis's pants, and she walked out the way she came, ignoring the hurling Serbian insults and screams.

She locked the door, and Cecilia Holmes abandoned Baron Maupertuis to burn.

/

 _\- London -_

2,000 km away in the heart of London, another fire was sparking. Another fire to kill a man. Well, John Watson wouldn't die, if Sherlock Holmes came flying to the rescue according to plan. Sebastian Moran always had a plan, after all.

John Watson lay limp and senseless in the back seat of Sebastian's Maserati, completely unaware of the world due to the drug concoction Moran cooked up himself. The request from Magnussen was odd - but not ridiculous. Hiring a nerve of Sherlock Holmes' enticed him. Through he rather injure the great detective, going after Sherlock's "lapdog" seemed a good start. There was something _special_ planned for Mr. Holmes.

John mumbled a bit, totally disoriented, hand slamming onto the middle console.

"Do you mind?" Moran shoved John's hand back to the backseat.

"Whooo ere yur?" John's speech jumbled, but it was relatively easy to understand.

"An enemy," Moran answered matter-of-fact.

"Orf Shurrlecks?"

"Yes," replied Moran, in a tone similar to a parent scolding a two-year-old.

"Where we goeeng?"

"Church."

John's eyelids drooped, submitting to the relaxants in his system.

Arriving an hour and a half early before the beginning of the fireworks party, there were no witnesses. Dragging John into the pile of wood, Moran was covered by the setting dusk over the horizon of London.

John's mind grated like rocks every time he attempted a coherent thought. The only thing his jumbled mind registered was being driven somewhere - not in the trunk, though. Maybe the vehicle didn't have a trunk? A Hummer then? The next thing he was aware of was being drug across unkept lawn, back and legs occasionally bumping against an unforgiving stone. Everything was blurred except one thing. One thing was unmistakingly clear. The "enemy" kidnapper resembled Sherlock to a tee.

Suddenly John felt an enclosure of sticks surrounding him. The scent of wood almost overwhelmed him. Something sharp nicked his forehead, a nail protruding from a board no doubt. Blood trickled down past his eyebrow but it felt like an alternative universe. A world where his senses were detached from his brain, and he couldn't act accordingly.

Every ounce of strength he contained was memorizing his kidnapper's face. Rounder than Sherlock's, but dominant cheekbones all the same. Hair lighter, containing hints of red. Ginger Sherlock Holmes.

He _had_ to be hallucinating.

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson," said Sebastian Moran aka Ginger Sherlock.

Content with how far John was in the wood pile, Sebastian Moran abandoned John Watson to burn.

/

 **Please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:** This chapter was actually the original beginning of the story, but as you can see that's not what happened. Anyways, hope you enjoy and please review! :)

 **Miss Holmes**

 **CHAPTER 6**

John hesitated on the porch step of 221B, having quite the staring contest with the knocker. His hand had been raised up to the doorbell, but dropped in an unsure fashion. This wasn't his home anymore; he should knock. However, there was a key to the building in his pocket. It felt silly to not waltz right in. What it really came down to was if he should bother Mrs. Hudson or not.

With a sigh, he rang the doorbell.

Minutes later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, face lighting at the sight of the army doctor.

"John! Come in! Come in! How are you feeling, I heard there was some… problems last night," she said in her motherly tone.

Mouth open, John ready to respond, it was shut instantly at the sound of a woman shouting upstairs.

" _FOR GOD'S SAKE, WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!"_

Sherlock's voice followed not a second later, thunderous. " _IF YOU THINK USING MY FULL NAME IS GOING TO CHANGE THIS, YOU ARE ENTIRELY INCORRECT!"_

" _Both of you, sit down!"_

John was shocked to hear Mycroft's voice as close to shouting as he'd ever heard it. Usually, when Mycroft's patience was tested, his intimidating tone would intensify.

"Um, what's going on?" John looked at Mrs. Hudson for answers.

"Some woman and those two, upset at something," she waved her hand dismissively. She jumped as the next shout traveled down the stairs.

" _OH SHUT UP MYCROFT!"_ rang the woman's and Sherlock's voice in unison.

"The neighbors…" Mrs. Hudson fussed.

"I'll go see if I can help," said John, taking the stairs two at a time.

He didn't hesitate at this door, and barged right in ceremoniously.

"John," Sherlock whipped around to face him.

John took in the sight in front of him. Mycroft occupied John's chair and was pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his umbrella. Sherlock stood at his full height, looking murderously angry. His anger was no doubt directed to the unfamiliar woman in the room. She had long dark, wavy hair practically to her waist. Dressed almost as professionally as the two Holmes, her attire included a tight, tucked-in black dress shirt, dark skinny jeans, and high-heeled ankle boots. She was almost as tall as Sherlock with the heels, and a fire burned in brilliant, sky blue eyes that mirrored the detective's.

"Sorry, um, what's going on?" he tentatively stepped farther into the room.

"Nothing of your concern," the woman snapped.

"May I remind you that the terrorist alert has been raised to critical, and you're acting completely irrational," Mycroft stood up.

"Oh yes, and there's also a man dead, how very pressing," the woman mocked him. "You can't force me to stay in London, Mycroft. Despite whatever strings you can pull in MI6."

"Sorry, may I ask who you are?" John eyebrows furrowed as he pointed to her.

"Stop apologizing. Why are you apologizing?" Sherlock asked.

"Cecilia Scarlett Eleanor Holmes. Glad that's been established," she hissed.

John's jaw went slack in shock. "Oh God… there's more of you."

Ignoring John completely, she turned to Mycroft. "I am not your property to send around interrogating terrorists as you please. I helped get Sherlock out of Serbia, what more could you possibly want? You gave me a choice on whether to take this assignment or not. I'm saying no. London is too exposed for my liking."

"I'm asking you to work together. I've given the Prime Minister my personal assurance that we're all on the case, and both of you will get the job done faster. And may I remind you that MI6 has already put this as your next mission. If you don't want to argue with me, argue with them."

"I thought it was your job to argue with the government, Mycroft," intervened Sherlock.

"Don't be smart," Mycroft snapped.

"Oh that takes me back. 'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one,'" Sherlock said in a high-pitched, nasally impression of his brother. It took all of John's self-control not to laugh.

"I am the smart one," said Mycroft.

"I used to think I was an idiot."

"You are an idiot," said Cecilia.

"Jesus," muttered John. They were all talking a mile a minute. Not two, but three superhuman minds in 221B. God save him.

"I'm not staying in London," hissed Cecilia, looking towards Mycroft.

"Unfortunately, you don't exactly have a choice. To get this done quickly, you need to be in the field and I need Sherlock scoping London."

She pressed her lips together.

"Mummy and Daddy are in London as well. Maybe we should have a family reunion," Sherlock suggested merrily, throwing his hands up sarcastically.

"You tell them I'm in London and I'll snap you in half, youngest. Far worse than anything Maupertuis did to you," she threatened Sherlock.

"Oh I don't know, maybe I should call them up right now. You have missed the last few Christmas din-"

She twisted Sherlock's arm into a disabling position and slammed him into the wall next to the door. Sherlock let out hissing string of curse words, face contorted in pain.

"Cecilia!" Mycroft barked. "If you hurt him anymore, I will phone Mummy."

John stood there, unable to comprehend. "What do you mean, _anymore_?"

"For God's sake," Sherlock said through deep breaths, the last word breaking.

"Oh, he's fine," she rolled her eyes.

"Let him go, please," said John.

It was John's voice of reason that slackened her grip and made her step away.

They stood in silence for a minute, Sherlock massaging his wrist. "Just take the job," his baritone voice filled the apartment.

With a deep sigh, she glared at them both. "I'll head to MI6 tonight to look over the case files."

"No need," Mycroft pulled out a manilla folder from his jacket and threw it on the table.

"How _convenient,_ " she muttered, opening the file. She glanced up a second later. "You might want to put some ice on that," she ordered Sherlock, nodding towards his wrist. Then, she continued reading.

Still taken aback by it all, John piped up and volunteered to get ice.

"Ross Wolfson. This is the dead agent, I presume," Cecilia didn't bother to glance up from her reading.

"Yes. He was a good agent, I will not have him die in vain," said Mycroft, staring at the floor.

"Getting sentimental over goldfish now, are we?" Sherlock smirked.

"You're one to talk," commented Cecilia, just as John stepped into the room. "Congratulations on your engagement by the way, though you're proposal didn't seem to go as planned. Always the drama queen, Sherlock."

"Right. Thank you?" replied John hesitantly.

"Agent Wolfson is an idiot," she continued. "Wanted to show off."

"Pardon?" said Mycroft, resisting the urge to rub his temples. He was accumulating a serious headache.

"He died to give us the information that a secret underground terrorist organization is planning an attack on London," Sherlock interjected. "Isn't that what secret underground terrorist organizations do?"

"Precisely, brother mine," said Cecilia. "Sherlock and yourself can handle this threat without my assistance."

"Not entirely. Your… _services_ may be required," Mycroft said slowly.

"My services?" she repeated. "That's why you need me so badly. Too soft to get your hands dirty, brother mine? God forbid you get a stain on that suit, which is probably worth more than this apartment."

Mycroft scowled. "I could-"

"No, you couldn't. Neither can youngest I'm afraid."

"Couldn't do what?" John asked, not entirely following.

"Kill a man."

A knock on the door ceased the silence in the room. "Boys! I made tea!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called, her hands too full to knock.

John rushed to the door and let her in, offering thanks.

"Not now Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft tried to be polite. "I'm afraid there's some tension."

"All the better for a cup of tea," Sherlock took his cup from the tray, giving Mycroft a look.

"Is this a client?" asked Mrs. Hudson, offering Cecilia a warm smile.

"Hardly," answered Mycroft.

"No, this is my sister," Sherlock said casually, between a sip of tea.

"Oh! You didn't tell me you had a sister, Sherlock. Hello dear," she smiled again.

Cecilia looked rather taken aback at the prospect of someone calling her "dear." "Please," she said, "Miss Holmes."

"Okay then, I'm going to grab some more biscuits," said Mrs. Hudson. She paused at the door and whispered to John in her worried mother tone, "There's more of them, John."

"My thoughts precisely. Why don't you wait on the biscuits," he suggested, shutting the door behind her.

"Gold-fish," said Cecilia mockingly, distinctly pronouncing each syllable.

"She makes excellent tea. Try some," Mycroft commanded, more than suggested.

"I prefer coffee."

"No you don't."

Giving Sherlock an annoyed glance, she picked up a cup but didn't sip it.

"Let me get this straight," John walked closer to the trio. "You two," he pointedly looked towards the brothers, "have hired your own sister to kill someone because of some terrorist threat?"

"In simple terms, yes," answered Sherlock.

"Does this 'terrorist threat' have anything to do with last night?"

Sherlock looked down into his tea, "I don't know."

"Some sort of fire?" Cecilia's interest sparked.

"How did you…" John started.

"When I walked in the door, I placed my jacket atop Sherlock's, which has a very smokey aroma. Not cigarette though, so a fire of some sort. Upon observing the bathroom, there's ointment and bandages out which one would use for mild burns. You yourself, also reek of smoke. Plus the cut above your eye and the bandage on your hand lead me to believe you and Sherlock were involved in some fire last night."

"You were burned. How?" John faced Sherlock.

"You didn't get out of the fire by magic, John," Sherlock said, hiding his face behind his mug.

John opened his mouth again but was cut off by Mycroft. "Nevertheless, I don't find the events of last night having any connection with the terrorist cell."

John ignored him. "Was it someone trying to get to you, send a message, through me?"

"I … don't… know," Sherlock repeated.

"Well, that's a first," John chuckled sarcastically.

"Not entirely," Cecilia pulled out a cigarette. The smell of burnt tobacco filled the dismal apartment.

"You all smoke?" John asked. The Holmes sister intrigued him. Any theories on Sherlock's and Mycroft's most-likely absurd childhood he'd once conceived sailed out the window.

"Cecilia started it," Sherlock said in his boyish manner.

"Well you were the first one to bring cocaine into the house so I wouldn't point fingers, brother mine," Cecilia smirked at John's surprised stare.

"Ah yes. The most furious wrath of mother was released when she found that," Mycroft commensurated.

"So Sherlock wasn't the only trouble child?"

"That's enough. Both of you get out. Out!" Sherlock waved his siblings to the door. John was surprised at their cooperation.

"Happily," muttered Cecilia. John heard her pound down the stairs and out the slammed entrance.

Mycroft remained in the doorway. Sherlock attempted to shut the door in his face but was stopped by the umbrella.

"You know we need her help."

"I don't, actually. Or your help either for that matter," Sherlock tried to slam the door again.

"You'd be surprised. You can't expect to easily dart around the streets of London yet."

"Oh for God's sake." Sherlock finally managed to get the door shut.

The bag of ice continued to melt in John's numb hand. He was a tad in shock, if he was honest with himself.

"A little step into the Holmes childhood wasn't what I expected today," he announced.

Sherlock sank into his chair to finish his tea. "Does my sister alarm you?"

"I don't think 'alarm' is the right word," John held up the bag of melted ice. "Still need this?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and said, "I'm sure you have a few questions."

John emptied the Ziploc's contents down the sink. "What is this terrorist threat, exactly?"

"Terrorist threat imposed on London Mycroft brought me back to investigate. Next."

"What did Mycroft mean, hurt _anymore_?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"I think I do."

"John," said Sherlock in a warning tone.

"I've noticed your stiffness. And the brace on your left wrist. I didn't want to mention it because I knew you'd evade it. What happened?"

Sherlock accepted defeat. "Sprained." Almost. "An incident with a very heavy window while chasing a suspect," he lied.

"You done cases these last two years? While you were dead?" John's curiosity got the better of him.

"Some."

"In the restaurant, when I, um, attacked you…"

"Yes?"

"You didn't fight back."

"No, I didn't. I realized I deserved some of it."

"You did, yes, you deserved it. But you _didn't fight back_ ," John had that 'I figured it out' glint in his eyes.

"I thought we already established that," Sherlock threw up his hands.

"Your fighting instincts would've kicked in. They did all those years ago right before we met The Woman, and you had the brilliant idea to punch me," he was almost shouting now.

"John."

"So I'm going to ask one more time, what did Mycroft mean _, anymore?"_

Sherlock searched John's eyes. The eyes of an honest man, who didn't need a complicated, broken friend like him, yet still loved him. The man who could've walked away years ago from the druggie sociopath roommate fate cursed him with but no. John stayed. Sherlock left. John deserved the truth, after all that, didn't he?

"I may or may not have been in a compromising position, going after Moriarty's web."

"Define compromising."

"In this context, the word comprising means accepting standards lower than desirable."

" _You know what I meant."_

"Oh so you wanted the context?"

"Spit it out, Sherlock. I don't have much patience for your games anymore."

"Serbia, John. Someone connected to Moriarty, Baron Maupertuis," Sherlock inhaled deeply, "tortured me in Serbia, just before I returned to London."

John seemed stuck in a state of flabbergasted shock. After 53 seconds of silence he said, "Take off your shirt."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

Sherlock knew he was cornered; there was no use attempting to evade the truth now.

John watched as Sherlock undid his shirt buttons devastatingly slow.

Eventually the garment hung loose on his shoulders, and he undid one cuff button to work the shirt around the wrist brace. When the dark purple clothing clothing hit the floor, John raised his eyebrows at the extensive bandaging on Sherlock's torso. Running over both shoulders, the white gauze disappeared under his trousers. No wonder Sherlock was so stiff.

"The bloody hell is this for?" John stared wide-eyed at the sight in front of him. "Does Mycroft know?"

"Yes," Sherlock stared at John like a bomb ready to explode. Hell, maybe it wasn't that bad of a comparison.

"HOW DID YOU LET ANYONE DO THIS TO YOU?" John shouted.

"Again, with the over-reacting," Sherlock muttered.

John clamped down on his emotions. Sherlock was a patient right now, nothing else. Focus on the mission. Sherlock needed his help, not his guilt. Grabbing the corner of the bandage, he asked, "When was this changed last?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe two days ago."

John didn't hesitate or ask permission as he began unwrapping the bandages. Forces to stand on tip-toe, he started at the shoulder and worked his way down, ignoring Sherlock's involuntary muscle twitching at someone being so close. John cared for Sherlock's wounds before, but nothing this intimate.

Every strip that feel revealed a long, deep, scarlet gash, each deeper than the last it seemed. His fingers were shaking by the time he finished, and he stood in shock at the sight in front of him. Week old yellowed bruises followed the length of the detective's torso, but it was nothing compared to the despicable state of Sherlock's back. Only a whip could produce this much _damage_. A criss cross pattern of red transformed Sherlock's pale, defined back to shreds. John seem smell tough shit in Afghanistan, but _this._ This wasn't supposed to happen to Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock. _Jesus Christ_ ," he whispered, mouth agape.

Sherlock was glad John couldn't see his face. He wouldn't be able to meet the doctors eyes. He didn't want questions. He tried to delete it, after all.

"I-I, I'm going to grab my bag," John exited the room and up the stairs to his old bedroom, where he knew a medical bag still lay.

With John gone, Sherlock relaxed his posture not having to act strong. He couldn't let John see how bad he was really hurt. _Too late_ , a voice in his head chatersized.

When John returned, Sherlock stiffened, and held his head high. John swelled, grabbing a bottle of ointment. "This might sting," he informed.

"John," said Sherlock, sharp and impatient. "Just _do it._ "

"Right," John nodded, placing the ointment on a soft towel and dabbing Sherlock's skin. Sherlock didn't flinch, and John wasn't really surprised. Surviving torture of this extent probably gave him an even higher pain tolerance.

John worked in silence, and Sherlock shifted all his weight on his good leg, silent also.

When John gently ran his hand down Sherlock's more bruised side, Sherlock hissed in response. "Sorry. These broken?" John questioned, referring to the ribs.

"You're the doctor," Sherlock snapped. He wanted to sit.

"So yes," John answered himself. Pulling out a new roll of gauze, his work continued.

Almost done, something struck him and he stopped for a moment.

Sherlock recognized the pausing. "What?"

"Why did you hide this from me?"

"You have a tendency to hover when I'm injured. I didn't need that while trying to solve the terrorist threat."

"Look Sherlock," John took a deep breath, resuming the wrapping. "I'm still _very_ pissed off with you. But if anything, what I need from you is trust and the truth. No more lies Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock tugged himself from John's hands and faced him, sadness on his features. Blue eyes met hazel. "I promise, John. Again, I'm so sorry. If there was any other way, I…"

John nodded, still not ready to fully accept an apology. At least Sherlock _was_ apologizing. There was that. But still. He was very pissed off about it, after all. Time would help fix things, eventually.

Sherlock's mobile ringed. It was on the floor, where it'd fallen from the chair armrest. "Could you…" Sherlock bit his lip.

"Yeah, yeah of course," John bent down and picked it up, because Sherlock wasn't able to. "It's from your sister," the words still felt foreign on his lips. "She'll take the case."


End file.
